How He Didn't
by amandakay
Summary: A slovenly prelude that describes Jill's forgetmenot love. Chapter 1 added. A date with Carlos could lead to a lifethreatening situation. JCCB
1. Prelude: What didn't Happen?

_How He Didn't. _(Prelude)

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I wanted my fucking mom. I couldn't recall any lovely memories in a moments notice, and this was because my cheap, red, lace-coming-off-the-crotch Victoria's Secret thong was stuck so far up my ass crack and I didn't have enough time to pull it out. Ladies, we only buy this shit because it comes in a fancy little white and pink striped box with a bow, and even if its not a gift you still feel like you've given yourself heaven because a thong is worth a thousand words. I would have gladly asked Barry to to lend me his hand, but he was too busy commanding me to spread my legs wider. I'm at the fucking gym, okay? I don't have fantasies about Barry. You just don't do it. This isn't Nike? He is a good guy, and I love him. What the fuck is with these dating advice therapists or whateverthefuck they call themselves? Men pay attention just fucking fine.Barry payed attention. Barry is the kind of guy who could start a conversation about anything, and hes the kind of guy who he thinks parents should stop thinking they're so rebellious or so fucking original just because they decide to change around a name like "Jake" to "Jayk" It's not like people could differentiate the name anyway, he said. It was still fucking 'Jake.' This gave me something to think about while I sweat all over the sweat of someone else who was once sweating over the sweat of someone else. They never clean these things, and I figured out why I could talk to Barry and why I loved him. He was married and he stared at his little pocket-sized photograph of the lucky woman. _His_ lucky woman was so fucking lucky, let me tell you. It was sweet, yet I felt sick and this was what made me reach down to pull out the biggest wedgie in the history of history. And I did. He just looked at me with his _"What's wrong?"_ look followed by a _"You look beat, you should sleep 'till noon tomorrow" look. I gave him an "I cant" look which really meant "will you come to my apartment with me"_ look. He didn't get that, though, and it's better that he didn't.

I slipped into my car and looked at him for a split-second until he looked at me and touched my leg. I turned away and started to pull out. this time he asked me directly, _"What's wrong?"_ and disregarding his effort, I didn't respond. _Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God_. _Don't touch me, please don't touch me. Especially on my leg. What am I? I am thirteen again, but this time I don't want that fickle little bitch romance. Don't touch me because I want to keep it that way. Don't touch me because I'm an idiot and the guy behind me said so when I almost backed into him and his wife._ Taking a long breath, I decided I couldn't drive. Barry switched with me and continued that concerned gaze. I watched him closely. He thought I was sleeping.

I walked in my apartment and inhaled that same smoke smell that every apartment has if you've ever had an ex-lover who smoked. It wasn't pleasing because smoke stuck around really fucking long and that made your ex-lover stick around even longer. If you're like me and never began any relationship because you're too scared of that smoke smell, then, well, I guess you wouldn't have to worry about having an ex or trying to cover it up when people go into that long _you-shouldn't-smoke-its-bad-for-your-exquisite-body _lecture. I would usually comply and admit it that I used to be a heavy smoker, and it wasn't Chris who stained my apartment with his smoke and short goodbyes. I used to think it was easier. I used to think that I could occupy my time better. How he _didn't_ throw his cigarette away and how he _didn't_ almost burn my armoire and how we _didn't_ laugh so fucking maniacally on my bed even though it was worth three-thousand dollars. How he said he _didn't_ love the way I looked in the morning or the way I looked when I just stepped out of the shower. How he _didn't_ say the towel looks better piled with the clothes I wore yesterday. How he _didn't_ press me against that armoire that he almost burned and how he _didn't_ burn into me; how he _didn't_ burn into my body, my mind, my heart.

----


	2. Hannah

_Hannah. _(Chapter 1)

_---_

"_HIII! IM CHRISTINE AND IM TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS OLD AND I HAVEN'T BEEN FUCKED FOR A LOOOONG TIME."_

They came out of the TV. Some show about women who are totally obsessed with their sex lives, or rather, they would be if they had any. Actually there was no woman named Christine and the TV wasn't on. No, I decided that if I were ever headed for a relationship, Christine would be my go-to alias. Yes, Christine. Christine with her blue eyes. Maybe I'd get a blonde beehive and dedicate a whole night to trying on that shittty, cakey Revlon lipstick. Like giving your lips a chemical peel, but it was pink and it was new and everyone who's anybody knows that a commercialized product by make-up distributors is worth buying even if they're fifteen dollars over-priced and the model really isn't wearing the product advertised. Fucking Halle Berry. Fucking Julian Moore, Fucking Milla Jovovich and fucking Beyonce. Oh, wait, that's L'oreal.

I stood stiff in the summer window etched with the last dew drops of the morning. I hugged myself and every so often I would sigh loudly and reach over to the crumbling fireplace to grab my mug and take a swig of some extremely black coffee. You know, that really fucking annoying sigh that people insist you want to hear and as they lean closer, they look at you out of the corner of their eye? That one! Of course, this means _"don't you want to know what's wrong, you bastard?"_

After deciding in my mind that MAC is way better than Revlon and after I realized that there were no sympathetic souls present to hear my really fucking bastardized sigh, the phone decided to ring in a somewhat eerie timing. This, of course, allowed me to spill every ounce of my bitter coffee over my breasts. This allowed me to be a reactionary dumbass because I swiped my hand over the hot liquid. This only allowed the burn to protrude through my paper thin tanktop. This also allowed me to burn my fingers, as well. This left a urine-like stain where my nipple ought to be. Oh, the tragedy. Oh, the irony. Really _FUCKING _smooth. Really, I'll thank the asshole on the other line with a--

"_Hello?—and...–oh!"_

It was Mr. Burton.

His voice sounded soothing and this made me forget the steam rising from between my reddening tits.

"_I know, I know. Well, how is it?"_ He said.

"_...What? How is what?" _

"_I touched your leg."_

"_Yeah?"_

"_...I touched your leg...?" _Pause. _"I touched your leg...and..." _Pause. _"I touched your leg and you looked about ready to open up a can of lysol."_

"_Trust me, it's everything but the bacteria."_

"_You flinched, Jilly."_

"_So I did. I tried not to. My immediate impulse is to defend what I have left, can you blame me?"_

"_This wasn't meant to be a walk down memory lane, Jill" _He tells me. _"It's over." _He forces onto me. _"I called because you've never pushed me away so feverently. The way you looked at me. What was that? What are you thinking about?"_

"_You're digging into me, again. There will be nothing but mush."_

"_Chris." He said._

"_What?" _I answered

"_Chris." _He insisted.

"_Huh?" _I didn't hear him say Chris. No.

"_Chris." _Him being fucking annoying.

"_Oh. Hmm?"_ Me, being fucking annoyed by him.

"_Well, I mean, I felt a little used. Don't you ask me to spread my fucking legs ever again. Gym or no gym."_ I slammed the phone down hoping he'd hear the deafening crash on the other end. I withdrew my hand from the telephone after repetitively moaning and groaning at Barry. It felt good. Hanging up on someone you don't want to talk to is like experiencing a man who knows how to perform some really fucking _good_ cunnilingus. You don't have to look at them, but finishing means you orgasm and its all in good time. Or, that's what I've been told. I mean, I'd like to have that done. I mean, it would satisfy me. I mean, probably. I replaced my bitter coffee with chocolate milk. I needed something cold after that deliciously irrepressible orgasmic experience. I still love you, Barry.

I chugged my chocolate milk with unforgivable haste until a speck of gold caught my eye through the window. I glared immediately through the glass at an innocent little blonde girl. She looked innocent enough, anyway. So delicately, the fabric of her dress resisted her tiny little legs. They reminded me of egg-beaters, and as fast as those little egg-beaters could carry her, she reached for her dog and tugged it's monstrous neck. It had reddish-brown hair and a strong bark and was bigger than a fucking king-size U-HAUL van. The little girl loved her dog. She hugged it like a teddy and she whispered in it's ear and looked around as if trying to get the terrified onlookers to pet her monster. She called: _"Mickey! Mickey! Mickey Mouse! M-I-C – K-E-Y...!" _Her voice was sweet.

"_Agh!"_

I swatted the leaf away from my face in a girly fashion. Advancing to common-sense, I picked up the leaf by my finger-tips and threw it forward. As the air slowly helped what would have been a gruesome fall, the leaf twisted and swayed onto the golden locks of the little girl. She looked upward in a dream-like state. Like the leaf. The leaf was life separated from life, a floating dream –she was a floating dream--a virgin to the world and mass destruction--heartache and it's patriotism. I wanted to catch her. If I could, I would catch her. I couldn't even catch myself, and who was to say that anyone else would dare catch me? Barry offered. He offered to catch me but I didn't want it. Yes, maybe I can't be caught because I'd rather fall. I'd rather fall like fucking rain. I'm waiting for the right person to fall on and waiting for the same person to wipe me off and cover his head and run inside because I'm the clouds and I'm crying on him. I'm crying for him because he left. I'm crying to him. He was the guy with the used cigarettes in his car–the car that reeked of smoke. The guy who made my apartment reek of smoke. The guy that didn't know what bullets went to what gun and had a desk to prove it. He yelled at me and told me he was mad. He told me he was mad at me because love taught him to lie and he had to depart with a lie if he wanted to come back alive. He had shattered the glass picture frame I had gotten him and he had placed my picture in his vest. He had said it was better not to have an empty picture frame.

"_H-hey!"_

Her voice squeaked like a mouse. Like she was in some kind of unbearable pain. It caused me to gasp sympathetically even though it was covered in childish fabrication._ I used to do that. Oh wait, I still do. _Sticking her head further out caused her guard to bark maniacally. It was about ready to jump up three stories and eat my face.

"_Sorry, sweetheart."_ I ignored the monster.

Shielding her sensitive aqua-marine eyes against the rays of the sun caused the material on her dress to raise slightly; her milky-white skin refused the light blatantly as she sucked her belly button in and out. She scratched her pale skin on her belly almost humorously and waved above her head, like we had been acquainted before. Though the beautifully sewn lace on her dress resisted her petite figure, the humidity caused her cotton under-garments to stick to her, that of which looked quite uncomfortable. She took a step forward. She protruded yet another wave of her hand, this time her gesticulation being much more vigorous.

"_It's okay!"_ She replied cheerfully.

I welcomed the little goldy-locks and realized that the degree of patience we are all endowed with--a higher degree at birth, was still tolerated in this girl. It was a thing of rare quantity, and I accepted this with utter joy. I feel light again. I feel warm. As the little girl's protector stood howling it's long and short howls through my open window, the little girl started to constantly repeat_ "No, boy, no.."_ under her jubilant voice. The leash was excruciatingly fastened to the monstrous neck of the dog. Good old rover seemed to be looking for water--something to quench it's thirst. It's gigantic mouth did not even remotely sustain it's unbelievably wide tongue. It was hanging down to it's feet. Dirt, insects, and everything else the winds carry were now visible on it's massive tongue. It's stomach inflated and deflated with long, deep breaths. It's saliva poured like a squall, making wet, circular marks upon the dry surface of concrete. One, two, three, then ten drops.

The doorbell rang and I jumped. It was starting to get stuffy in my apartment and the humidity was getting to me when I decided to close my window and turn on the air. When I opened the door I noticed a man standing in front of me. He was looking around, almost frantically._ Did he lose a bet or some shit?_ Hardly able to contain himself he glared at me and shoved something in my face. I held a brown box that of which was addressed to someone on the lower floor. I looked at it and decided to be honest. I really didn't want to know what it was.

"_Annette? You are Annette. I mean, this is for you? Yes, this is yours. Just fucking take it." _He forced it into my gut.

This poor idiot was probably doing illegal shit. Transferring the goods. Poor bastard. The guy who delivers and gets nothing but a prison sentence for illegal possession while the rest of his so-called partners end up getting high and drowning in their bathtub. The kind of people that will have their own body and their own casket as the guests of honor at their funeral. This was probably how it started, anyway. The poor bastard with his life on the line who needed a haircut. I just felt like saying _cut your fucking hair, please._ You know, I had always been lacking something according to someone else. My parents said I was lacking a mind, direction, and whatever else people tell you that you're lacking even though you're one million times better off then they are. Or maybe that's what you think because you're actually lacking something. I felt for this guy. _Oh, pardon me. I don't even know him. _I'm supposed to go into details about why I called him a poor bastard, aren't I? I mean, that's what we do in stories, we talk about why we choose to give people titles in our own little minds and no one knows this but me and the bastard reading this. He was at my door and that is all.

"_I'm not Annette. Try upstairs, You have the wrong room."_

In case you're too dense to figure it out, I was slightly interested in Annette and what she was receiving from a man that totally knows how to keep his cool. _Yeah, okay._ I said I wasn't but if you're currently reading this line it'sonly been one minute since I told that lie

"_Shit shit shit shit shit. You aren't Annette?"_

"_Um, no. I told you, you have the wrong room."_

The man ran out of the hallway and I slammed my door amused at his mistake. Through the window pane, I saw him talking to goldy-locksas she smiled her sweet smile. It was just as sweet as ever. I saw him pick her up. _That fuck picked her up!_ I didn't hesitate. I ran down the stone steps, the same way that fuck came to my door. He was holding that little girl and before I placed my hand on him I heard him ask _where is your mom, Hannah?_

The monster growled at him incessantly. His mouth opened and he shot his tongue out at the man. Goldy insisted for him to stay quiet but the monster insisted that something about this man qualified him to be eaten alive. It's black gums were steeped in mucous and saliva. I felt really fucking sick looking at it.

Turning around at the feel of my hand, I felt his temperature drop under his jacket. He whispered a curse under his breath and nearly dropped goldy-locks flat on her face onto the hard concrete. I lessened her fall and adjusted her dress. She just stared at me and finally decided to smile again. Her sweet smile. I saw the man run-off into the building. I didn't want to chase him, I wanted to know if Hannah was safe. _Like some fucking newly discovered mother or some shit. _I didn't really care, I wanted her to be safe.

"_Your name is Hannah?" _I accentuated the short "a" sound.

"_Hawnuh" _She said. _"H-A-N-N-A-H"_ and she said "Hawnuh." She accentuated the short "o" sound.

I released my firm grip from her arm and knelt in front of her. I gently removed some hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear.

"_Who was that man and why did he grab you? He knows you, Hannah?"_

"_Yes! That package was for my mommy, Annette."_

"_The package? Are you sure?"_

"_Mr. Benson!"_

"_What?"_

"_His name is Mr. Benson."_

_Oh." I said._

"_He delivers all my mommy's packages. Ms. Birkin is my mommy. Annette!"_

I left it at that. I didn't understand._ Your mommy, Hannah? If he knows you and your mommy why did he mistake me for Annette?_ _Annette...?_

I didn't ponder on the situation and this was because me and Mr. Carlos Oliviera had a date tonight...

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End file.
